For That Which Has Been Your Delight
by pyrrho
Summary: Spike can't get out of everything, all the time. Greg deals with some of the fallout.


I originally wrote this as a part of longer story arc, but I think it can be read as a one-shot, because a lot of the stuff that didn't get included is implied if you just use a little imagination. Nevertheless, if you want the full context, you should read my 'sister' story Opposite the Sun.

Also, tissue-warning, and one instance of strong language.

_When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight._

- Kahlil Gibran

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><p>They waited in the hospital for a long time.<p>

Greg tried to tell himself that the wait was a good thing, because if they were still working, Spike was still alive. But as the clock hit three hours, it brought with it an overwhelming feeling of dread, because three hours meant complications. It meant things were very very wrong. But he tried to ignore the sensation, and to forget the feeling of Spike's ribs shifting under his hands as he performed CPR, because focusing on those things wasn't going to do him any good.

At three and a half hours, Raf started pacing. He was stony-faced, and his steps were hard and loud in the silent room.

At four and a half hours, a doctor walked in. Nobody noticed him at first, caught up in their own worlds, and it wasn't until he spoke that their heads jerked around. "Is there a Gregory Parker here- emergency contact for Michelangelo Scarlatti?"

Greg was out of his seat in an instant. The other man turned to face him. "Mr. Parker? Dr. Cooper." At this point, the rest of the team was there with them as well.

Greg nodded, and swallowed heavily. "How is he?"

And Dr. Cooper looked at him, and Greg knew.

"I'm so sorry. We did everything we could, but…"

Raf backed up a step. "No, no, no, _no_- you're lying- Spike's not dead, he can't be dead, stop it, _stop_ it, don't say that!" Ed had latched on to his arm, and he looked like he was about to collapse, and Jules had fallen back into the chair she had been sitting in, and Sam had turned around and was striding toward the corner of the room.

Raf's shouts slowly dissolved into sobs as he bent double over himself, and Ed was hanging on helplessly, just trying to stay upright. The doctor was looking at Greg.

The man in question was standing perfectly still. He wasn't crying; he wasn't shaking; he was just standing there, looking straight at the other man.

"I want to see him." He said quietly, calmly.

Dr. Cooper briefly closed his eyes. "I'm sorry, but there was nothing we could do. He came in with too-"

"I want to see him." Greg repeated.

This time it was Ed that spoke, his voice shaking. "Greg, it's too late, he's-"

Greg whirled around before he could blink. "I _know_!" He shouted furiously. "I know, Eddie, okay? He's gone, he's dead, he's not coming back- I know!" His breath was coming in bursts. "Just fucking shut up- you don't have to tell me that!" No one said a word, and he turned back around without waiting to see Ed's reaction. "I want to see him." He said flatly.

The room was silent except for the sounds of Raf's quiet gasps. Dr. Cooper watched him for a moment, and then nodded wearily. "Okay." He turned around and started toward the double doors leading back into the hospital. Greg followed without a word or a glance back at his team.

The pair stopped in front of a metal door, and before he opened it, Dr. Cooper paused. "I should- I just want to…" He took a breath. "I'm so sorry." Greg didn't look at him, didn't react at all, and the doctor sighed heavily and opened the door. "I'll be waiting here." He murmured, but he didn't think Greg was listening, and so watched him walk in and gave him some privacy.

Spike was lying on a table. His shirt was gone, but he was still in his uniform pants, and his boots had been placed neatly beside his feet. Greg noted all of this as he approached, and was vaguely grateful someone had cared enough to take care of the boots. He slowly moved around to the foot of the table, and looked down at the body.

The doctors had straightened Spike's broken leg, laying it out and rolling his ankle into its correct position. Greg reached out and gently ran his hand over it. He moved to his leg, and then started trailing slowly up his body until he reached Spike's torso. He traced the bottom of his ribcage, ghosting over the angry red incision the doctors had made, and then followed the dips and depressions that marked each broken rib.

He got to the neck and stopped. He hadn't looked yet, but his gaze slowly, inexorably, moved upward.

Spike looked like he was sleeping. Greg had never really believed it when people said that about death, but it was true. He looked like he was sleeping. His eyes were closed and his jaw was slack, and for once, no worry lines marked his brow. Greg distantly thought that he hadn't looked this relaxed since Lou had died.

Greg put his hand out hesitantly, as if Spike would pull away, but of course he didn't, and so Greg touched his cheek softly with the back of his knuckles. The skin still seemed warm, and he didn't lift his hand, moving from Spike's cheek to his lips, and then his eyelids, and then his temples. Some of his hair had fallen into his face, and Greg remembered how much Spike hated that. He brushed it away with gentle fingers.

When he was done with his tactile examination, Greg took a step back. He allowed his eyes to take in the entire body, the entire picture, and he then he stepped closer again.

Spike seemed calm. Peaceful. Greg gazed down at him for a long minute, and then framed the younger man's face with his hands. He bent over and pressed his lips to his forehead, barely applying pressure; just letting them rest on his brow. As he stood up, he wished he had done that years ago. He had wanted to do it for years. And now it was done. Without looking away from his face, he found Spike's hand and grasped it in his own, squeezing lightly. There was no reciprocated pressure, however, and as Greg let go, the hand fell back limply to the table. Though he should have expected it, though he did expect it, it was that gesture that broke him. That wasn't Spike.

His breath hitched, and for the first time, tears started building up behind his eyes. He held them back, though, and composed himself before cupping Spike's face in his hands one last time. Then he turned around and walked slowly out the door.

He didn't say anything to Dr. Cooper as he led him back to the waiting room, and he didn't say anything to his team as he walked straight by them and out to the parking lot. He didn't look anywhere but the road as he drove home through the dark, and he didn't think of anything as he made his way up the stairs to his apartment. He didn't think of anything as he put his key in the lock, and didn't think of anything as he started to make his way to his bedroom.

He did think of something when he saw Dean emerging from his own room, rubbing sleep out of his eyes and asking where he had been. He thought of everything. And as Dean broke down in the middle of the living room, kneeling on the floor and crying, Greg almost walked out, because he didn't want to see this, and he didn't want to think, and Dean was slumping closer and closer to the floor, gasping and sobbing, and Greg could leave now and he wouldn't have to deal with it.

But it didn't work that way, and so he got down beside Dean and held him close, rocking him back and forth and back and forth. But Dean didn't stop crying, even as he grasped Greg's shirt and beat weakly at his chest, because he had loved Spike, and now Spike was gone.

Greg just continued to hold him, and as Dean kept sobbing, he realized that the last time he had done this, it had been Spike kneeling on the ground. And then he couldn't breathe, couldn't hold it back anymore either, and even as he had his arms around Dean, he started shaking.

The two of them were caught in that unsteady period between shock and mourning, which, although it contains grief, isn't defined by it. They were caught there, and all they could do was sit on the floor and cry, because nothing else _could_ happen. There was nothing else.

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><p>They had the funeral a week later. The entire team was there, as were most other members of the SRU. Holleran was sitting next to Donna in the third row, and Winnie was there too, quietly crying into a handkerchief. Wordy had brought Shelley and his two girls with him, and they were all sitting together in the second row, right next to Sophie and Clark. Lou's parents were right behind them.<p>

Sam and Jules were in the back, and Sam sat very still, his expression hard and his lips drawn together into a colorless line. Jules was pressed against his side, trying and failing not to cry.

Raf was sitting in the front row, next to Ed, and was shaking before the ceremony had even begun. Ed, for his part, was stiff and upright, almost military in his stance. His eyes were red, though, and he couldn't stop the occasional tremor in his hands.

On the other side of him was Dean. He, in stark contrast to Ed, was slumped back in his seat, his limbs weak, as if he couldn't find it in himself to sit up. Every breath he took was labored, and even his eyes were hooded. He looked like hadn't slept in a week, and maybe he hadn't.

And, on the far right side of the front row, sat Greg. He looked empty. There was no other word for it. His eyes were glassy, and his suit somehow seemed like a shell, just barely holding the rest of him together. His tie was immaculate, precise, and everything down to his shoes was just as carefully arranged, and if you just focused on that, you wouldn't have to look at how pale his hands were, how ashen his face was, and how even his chest seemed motionless, even though he had to be breathing. He wasn't blinking, he wasn't crying, and he didn't reach over to comfort Dean, because he honestly looked like he hadn't even noticed.

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><p>Spike's mother wasn't there.<p>

Greg had had to make the call, and endure the hysterics, and try not to cry himself, because that was not what someone did when telling a mother her son was dead. But he had heard, a few days later, that Spike's brother had checked her into a hospital, because life was hard to live without Spike.

So she wasn't there.

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><p>When it came time for people to come to the front and say a few words about Spike, Holleran went first. He talked about how dedicated Spike was, how good at his job he was, and how he always kept his face forward and looked to the future.<p>

Raf talked about what a good friend Spike had been. He was funny, he said, and smart, and above all else, he was kind. He always had time to sit down and talk, and he could make you feel like you could do anything, and sure enough, you would do anything, for him. Raf couldn't get any further than that before he had to stumble back to his seat.

Nobody else moved. Nobody else stood up to talk. Greg sat perfectly still, and would have continued to, if Dean hadn't weakly pushed him off the bench. He stayed there for a minute, not really sure of what he was doing, and then he very slowly walked up the steps and turned to survey the attendees. It was remarkable, how many lives Spike had touched. He cleared his throat.

"Spike wasn't an angel." He said quietly, but his voice carried clearly to the farthest corner of the church. "He wasn't an angel. He was always messing around, and putting pepper in peoples' drinks, and filling their vests with cream cheese, and setting tripwires on the doors leading to the showers. Sometimes, you just wanted to hit him." There were a few wet chuckles from the pews. "But you never did. He was in love with a robot he named Babycakes, and then another robot he named Sugarlumps, and people teased him about it, I teased him about it, because he really did love them." He took a deep breath. "But that why Spike was so special. That was why Spike was Spike. He had an endless capacity for love. Every one of you here today- Spike loved you. He would have done anything for you, he would have died for you. To him, there was never a distinction between friendship and love. He's the only person I've ever known who didn't even think there was a difference. He truly and honestly believed that. He loved you."

"And in return, you couldn't help but love him. It wasn't a choice you made- you didn't wake up one morning and think, 'today is the day I love Spike'. No, he just kind of wormed his way in, until you woke up one morning and thought, 'I've loved Spike for a long time'. You just couldn't help it." People were nodding. "You could have the hardest heart in the world and you would still love Spike."

"I loved Spike. I loved him so much. I told him once that I loved him like a son, and I don't know if he believed it or not, but it was true. He was like a son to me. He was-" His breath caught in his throat, and he had to pause for a moment. "He was a son to me. And Dean would tell you that Spike was a brother to him. He was _so_ special. The room would just light up when he walked in, and-" His voice broke. "And he changed my life. I don't think I would have ever…" There were tears coming to his eyes, and he covered his face with his hands while he tried to stop shaking. "I just- I'm so glad to have met him, and to have known him, and to have loved him. I'm so honored to have had that opportunity. And- and-" He buried his head as his cheeks got wetter and wetter. "I want to say thank you. To Spike. If he's listening. Thank you, Spike, because you made the world a better place. Thank you, and I hope you're happy, wherever you are."

There was a complete and utter silence in the church as he finished, and he couldn't force his legs to move, or his head to rise, and so he just stood there, trembling. And then Ed got up and slowly walked up the stairs, just as Greg had done. But he didn't stop. After gently grasping Greg's shoulder, he continued on to where Spike was lying in his coffin, and he knelt beside it and whispered a few words, before turning back around and heading to his seat.

Raf was next. Again, he put a hand on Greg's shoulder as he walked by, and moments afterward, Dean got out of his seat too.

It took a long time for everyone to get their turn, but each person waited patiently, and each person touched Greg or murmured a few words in his ear as they passed. Greg didn't react, but he was feeling it, hearing it, and he was grateful, even through his pain.

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><p>They buried Spike right next to Lou. Everyone knew that was what he would have wanted, and as they lowered him into the ground, there was an appropriate symmetry to the graves. It really was like two friends reuniting, and Jules couldn't take it, and had to get up and walk away. Sam followed her.<p>

As the coffin slowly disappeared from view, people gradually went their separate ways, one by one, and at the end, it was only Greg, Ed, Raf, and Dean. They stood there a long time, not saying anything, until Ed had to turn around and join his family. Eventually, Raf left too, still crying, and then Dean walked off and found a seat under a tree, fifty meters away. Greg remained where he was.

In a way, he never left.

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><p>This was something that just needed to come out. I didn't plan on writing it, but it just kind of happened, and I was crying the whole way through (although that may just be me being delicate, I suppose). Anyway, this is a very different thing for me, so please please let me know what you think. Thank you so much, everybody.<p>

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